


That'll Be the Day

by RoxanneRolls



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneRolls/pseuds/RoxanneRolls
Summary: History had proven time and again that opening his heart to love would only lead to breaking it. So why the hell was he sitting here in his living room eating cowboy steaks with a beautiful woman, seriously wondering what it would feel like to kiss her, to touch her, to…love her?
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 28
Kudos: 119





	That'll Be the Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have been enjoying the talented writing of many of you here on this site for several years, but I have never posted my own work. Mainly, because it has been years since I had the time or desire to "pick up pen" and return to the world of writing. The stories I have posted previously are on FanFiction.Net. This is the first story I have written for the NCIS universe, but I have loved and followed NCIS since the 5th season and have seen every episode numerous times. I adore Mark Harmon and Maria Bello and their beautiful dance around the Slibbs relationship. This might end up being the one and only story in my return to writing, but I hope you enjoy it.

That’ll Be the Day  
MAHC/Roxanne Rolls

Pairing: Gibbs/Sloane  
Spoilers: ATC for Season 15, Episode 17 - “One Man’s Trash”  
Note: The dialogue in the basement is taken from the episode, which was written by the talented Scott Williams.

XXX

“That’ll be the day,” John Wayne declared from the boxy, vintage television shoved into a corner of the spartan living room.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs flinched at the Duke’s iconic delivery of that line, the ache in his heart scarcely dulled by the years, and having nothing to do with any hollow-point bullet fragments Dr. Cyril Taft had dug out of his chest three years before. That’ll be the day. Flippant. That’s how he had responded to her, how he had blown off her serious declaration of love. That’ll be the day. Well it was the day, all right. The day before she left. The day before he had created Rule 12. The day before –

“Hey, you okay?” 

Blinking, he pressed his lips together and gave himself a mental head slap over the moment of painful recollection. Damned if he would ruin the best evening he had spent in a long time because of the spectre of his complicated history with Jenny Shepard. 

In answer, he shrugged off his companion’s concern by offering her a smile that, he had been told, was charming, and shoved another perfectly rare piece of ribeye into his mouth. When she didn’t respond immediately, he stiffened, sitting straighter on the couch, suddenly wary. It would not be the first time a woman had tried to pry into his psyche – and this woman did that very thing for a living. 

She had paused in eating; the steak, which was cooked almost to the same specifications as his, lay cooling on her plate. But instead of prodding, she bobbed her head once in quick acceptance, her easy smile and soft brown eyes soothing the sharp sting of memory and allowing him his secrets. “Okay.” 

Relieved, he lifted his chin, acknowledging her perception and appreciating her presence. He genuinely enjoyed Jack Sloane’s company. He enjoyed it a lot. 

And that was what worried him. 

If he had learned anything from his fractured love affair with Jenny, not to mention his three failed marriages and Shannon’s death, it was that love doesn’t last. At least not for him. History had proven time and again that opening his heart to love would only lead to breaking it. 

So why the hell was he sitting here in his living room eating cowboy steaks with a beautiful woman, seriously wondering what it would feel like to kiss her, to touch her, to…love her?

XXX

Twenty minutes earlier, Jack Sloane had eased down the steps to his basement, two bottles of beer held by their necks in her right hand, delight on her face as she took in the menagerie of tools, scraps, wood, and boat. 

“Holy moly! I’m flattered, Gibbs. I finally made it to your inner sanctum.”

He lifted his hands briefly and clarified, “It’s a basement.” For some reason, his team seemed to think the lowest room in his house was somehow sacred. 

Considering it was her first time seeing one of the ubiquitous half-constructed boats, she was amazingly nonchalant. “I’m not even gonna ask about that,” she muttered, cutting her eyes away from the smooth wooden hull. Stepping closer to him, she added, “Unless that’s what you wanted to show me.”

He acknowledged her with another look before he went back to work trying to open the tiny metal case that held his father’s compartmentalized World War II safety razor. “No.”

As soon as she drew up next to him, he heard her small gasp. “Ah!” That amazed declaration satisfied him that he had read her correctly. Jack Sloane appreciated the little things about humanity, the artifacts that people treasured, the mementoes that told stories. It pleased him to see that she was immediately drawn in by Jackson Gibbs’ iconic wartime foot locker, the reason he had invited her over in the first place – besides cooking her cowboy steaks.

“Is this your collection?” she asked, eyes bright as she scanned two pin-up photos and a magazine taped inside the lid. The same starlet stared out from all three, her vintage features somehow simultaneously fresh and sultry. 

“Nah. I just thought you’d appreciate it.” At least he had hoped she would, because it meant something to him, but he added, “You fought a war,” to make the connection less personal.

“Sure. Not the same war,” she noted, “but, ah, it’s a wonderful time capsule.” Her sincerity brought a smile to his face, which he tempered by pressing his lips together.

At that moment, he finally pried open the case, excited to show her what he had found. He was also a little embarrassed. Sentimentality didn’t fit the Special Agent Gibbs persona.

Her gaze took in the rich nostalgia, then followed his movement as he pulled a small piece of metal from his left pants pocket. Watching him hold the razor parts carefully, she murmured, “Takes you back to a time, a place…” then looked up at him and softly guessed, “…person?”

He blew on the replacement piece before he screwed it into position, making the razor complete again, possibly for the first time since the end of the war. Matching her quiet tone, he confirmed, “My dad’s.” Pushing back the unexpected lump in his throat at finally restoring this personal item, he added, “It’s his old…razor.”

Her huff of amazement made him smile. “They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” she observed in admiration.

It was a shared moment of appreciation and nostalgia, and it drew an easy laugh from him. “No, they do not.” Even though he was still looking at the razor, he could see her smile, feel the mutual enjoyment of his discovery. “No, they do not,” he repeated, “which makes finding parts for ‘em hard as hell, I can tell ya that.” And in that satisfying triumph of holding up the intact razor, he felt a strong moment of companionship with her. So much so, that he let down his guard completely, grinned, and admitted, almost giddily, “But I got lucky the other day.”

“Yeah, you did!” she agreed, sounding just as giddy, a matching grin on her face.

“Bingo!” he declared, as they laughed together. Then more softly, he repeated, “Bingo. That’s better.” He gazed at the small symbol of Jackson Gibbs’ life. “Lot better.”

“And cool as hell,” she declared, her happiness for him clear in her tone and the way she leaned in and smiled up at him.

He took a second to enjoy the moment, then began unscrewing the razor to return it to its place in the cigar box lodged in one of the foot locker’s compartments. 

Grabbing the beer bottles, she straightened. “How much is something like that worth to a collector, you think?”

“Not much,” he conceded, closing the cigar box and leaning on the foot locker so he could look at her.

She lifted the bottles in silent offering, and they clinked when he reached out and took one. Their eyes met briefly before they both glanced away. 

She looked back first. “How ‘bout to you?” she asked.

His gaze flickered back up to her, and he saw the interest in her dark eyes, heard the compassion in her voice. It was a personal question, which he usually ignored when anyone else asked, but she seemed so genuinely interested… 

Then suddenly, he wasn’t saying anything. Neither was she. They were staring at each other, a palpable crackle of electricity sparking between them, warm brown eyes locking with ice blue. The jolt of arousal surprised him. Not that Sloane wasn’t an attractive woman. He had noted that on first sight, even as she stood dripping in his foyer, half-drowned in a downpour at the time. She had an easy, natural beauty, fresh and honest, which was sexy to him. And she had become more attractive the better he got to know her, because strong, intelligent women always attracted him. 

But it had been a while – years actually – since he’d had any desire for more than a no-strings night of physical entertainment. Ever since he was burned by Samantha Ryan – her lack of trust in him to take care of her and her son hurt more than he cared to admit – he had protected his heart almost as fiercely as he had after Shannon. There had been a few dates, some more than once, and even a surprising supper invitation from ex-wife-number-two Rebecca, who was single again after her brief marriage to the adulterous lawyer whose name Gibbs had purposefully forgotten. None of these, however, held the promise of any kind of prolonged relationship, especially Rebecca, who - Gibbs still determined - was crazy. 

And then Jack Sloane showed up. Brash and cocky, she was also insightful and witty, and most of all compassionate. But Gibbs had years of experience in playing his romantic cards close to the vest. After a rocky start – caused by Jack’s dubious tactic of crashing into his house in the middle of a thunderstorm to check him out prior to their official introduction – he allowed himself to fall into a friendship with her, a friendship based on the common elements of devotion to their work, dedication to their country, and loyalty to those they considered family. 

And it had worked well for almost a year. Until that night. Until she looked at him, her deep brown eyes compassionate, her soft lips parted. And the slow simmer of the past few months suddenly boiled between them. His heart, so battered both physically and emotionally over the years, pounded against his chest, and he just barely managed not to reach out and pull her toward him, press his mouth against her questioning lips, run his hands down her long back and over her perfectly rounded hips. 

“The steaks are burning,” he had muttered hoarsely instead, frowning almost in pain as the fragile moment shattered, and turned away from those inviting dark eyes, legs already striding toward the stairs.

Blinking, she drew a breath, agreed with him. “Oh, yeah, yeah. I smell that. Oh, good catch,” she said, following right behind. “I like mine medium rare. Are you like a well guy?”

He groaned at the very suggestion that he could ruin a beautiful ribeye by charring it, as he took the stairs two at a time, falling into her tease with relief and gratitude – and a little regret. 

XXX

So now they sat, eating cowboy steaks, drinking beer, and pretending to watch John Wayne while they both tried to navigate this new development. 

“This is really good,” Sloane praised, face angled down, focused on cutting another piece of the rich, tender beef. “I mean, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a better steak.”

Gibbs responded with a dismissive grunt before lifting his half-empty beer bottle and taking another healthy swig. 

“No, seriously,” she insisted, “what’s your secret, Cowboy?”

He snorted as he considered the many meanings in that loaded question. With a shrug, he answered, “Beer.”

Her snort matched his. “Why am I not surprised? Do you soak them in it or just make the cows drink it beforehand?”

He smirked and shook his head, shifting slightly on the couch to face her. “Right before they are done, I just pour a bottle over them.” 

“Ah.” Apparently, that made perfect sense to her. Following his lead, she turned toward him, her smile relaxing into a much more serious expression, tentative, vulnerable.

Once more, deep brown met ice blue. 

Gibbs found that he could not look away, did not want to look away. Not breaking their gaze, he swallowed, chasing down the steak and his reservations with another gulp of beer. Jack did the same and then squared up to him, close enough that their knees touched. He waited, sensing her internal conversation, talking herself into – or out of – the next move. Finally, she tilted her head and smiled, lifting her right hand until her fingers brushed against his jaw, barely tickling over the evening’s scruff. 

Gibbs was not at all surprised to feel his skin tingle and his heart kick in response to her touch, a jolt of desire shooting straight through him to the usual destination. Out of habit, his tongue darted out to dampen his lips and he lowered his head, rationalizing that Rule 12 didn’t apply here. Jack worked for Leon, not him. She wasn’t really a co-worker…technically. Bullshit, Gunny. 

Still, at this stage in his life, if he didn’t take a chance, he might never again. If there was anyone he trusted now that might just understand him, it was Jack Sloane. He had already imagined what her lean, athletic body would look like, feel like against his, around his. He had no illusions that he was the same physical specimen he had been at the height of his Marine service, or even his early years at NCIS, but he also knew he kept himself in good shape, and he didn’t worry about the vulnerability that full intimacy would bring. Blushing slightly, he acknowledged to himself that previous lovers – even Diane – had expressed appreciation that he was equipped in both technique and hardware to provide well for his partners. Still, it had been a while. He hoped Jack would feel the same.

As he contemplated all this, her hand slid backwards into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged him toward her. The brown of her eyes had narrowed, overtaken by the dilation of her pupils, and Gibbs flicked his gaze away from them to her mouth, opening just inches from his, soft, inviting. 

That’ll be the day.

Jack’s face dissolved, and another face, framed by red hair and lit by green eyes, swam before him. A letter left in a coat pocket. And another letter, with only the unfinished salutation Dear Jethro…

That’ll be the day. 

Despite the desire churning in some parts of his body, his mouth suddenly felt like cotton, and he swallowed, his eyes pressing closed, brows pinched. Rule 12. There was a reason for it, a reason for not opening his heart up to pain and loss again. A reason for –

“I’m not her,” Jack whispered. 

He jerked back, eyes opening. “What?”

“I’m not her,” she repeated, her soft gaze knowing, encouraging.

What the hell? “Jack, I don’t know what you are – “

But she just pressed her hand against his cheek, her thumb caressing over his lower lip. “Whoever put that look on your face. Whoever hurt you – “

He stood abruptly, not sure what he planned to do, but determined that Jack Sloane was not going to head shrink him tonight. “You can take the rest of your steak home,” he said, clearing his throat and gesturing to her plate that still held half a ribeye. “I’ll wrap it in foil for you.”

But when he bent to pick it up, her fingers touched his chest, lightly, but insistent enough to stop him. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he assured her brusquely.

She pressed harder, spread her hand over his heart. “I just want you to know,” she whispered, stretching up until her lips hovered just under his. “For whatever it means to you: I. am. not. her.”

He stared down at her, and after a long moment, the ghost of Jenny Shepard finally dissolved to mist, and the very real, very present, and very beautiful face of Jack Sloane smiled up at him, open, warm, genuine. 

That’ll be the day.

A strange sensation swept through him, and it took him a little time to recognize it as hope. It had been years since he had truly embraced such a reckless emotion. It was dangerous, had been unthinkable in recent times, but his mind turned over the possibility that he might actually be given a chance to reconsider risking his heart. 

As he contemplated this dizzying revelation, he felt Jack draw closer, and he finally let his lips meet hers, the touch soft, tentative, but with an underlying passion that promised much more. It was a kiss that respected the friendship already bonding them, yet still dared to hope for what might lie ahead.

That’ll be the day. Maybe it was. Just maybe it was.

End…or Beginning


End file.
